


small town moon

by lifeincantos



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Found Family, Gilmore Girls Inspired, M/M, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, additional characters & pairings completely undecided, broganes, that's right folks we've come to this point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-13 15:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18034118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeincantos/pseuds/lifeincantos
Summary: “I have a problem,” Adam comments, quick and low. “I’m an enabler.”“You’re an angel,” Shiro corrects, warmth pooling at his fingertips where they rest against newly hot ceramic, ghosting up his palms, his wrists, his smile. “You’ve got wings, baby.”a series of moments in a small town. // the gilmore girls inspired adashi slow burn that no one asked for.





	1. pilot.

A prediction: the answer won’t be no.

“ _Please_ , Adam. please, please, _**please**_.”

It doesn’t start out looking promising. Shiro holds the mug between his hands – _his_ mug, selected off the same peg every time he walks through the door (two, three times each day), so well worn and well loved it might as well have grooves where his mismatched fingers clutch at it. Shiro’s brows are up and there’s a hopeful, _grateful_ smile on his lips. preemptive as it is.

Adam meets his gaze impassively. “– How many cups have you had this morning?”

“ _None_.”

Adam continues to meet his gaze impassively.

“– Plus five, but _yours_ is better.”

“You have a problem.”

“I’m touched. Flattered. Parched. Problematic. Have I mentioned yours is, in fact, _better_ than the best?”

It’s a dance of a moment – Shiro offering the mug, two handed, leaning just in enough that he’s hanging over the counter. His expression doesn’t flicker when he waits a beat, and then another, and then when Adam finally relents and moves it down to the surface to top it off with the pot he already has in hand.

“ _I_ have a problem,” he comments, quick and low. “I’m an enabler.”

“You’re an _angel_ ,” Shiro corrects, warmth pooling at his fingertips where they rest against newly hot ceramic, ghosting up his palms, his wrists, his smile. “You’ve got wings, baby.”

He turns too quickly back to his table to see the way Adam watches him go. But then the phone rings behind the counter, and the moment is what it was.  
  


* * *

Shiro has conned his way to his seventh cup by the time the bell on the front door chimes. He sits up a little straighter, leans both his elbows on the table as he watches the figure enter, scan the diner for a moment, then make a beeline for the empty seat across from him. They both say nothing as Shiro watches him systematically unpack at least six overlarge books of every variety from a backpack that doesn't seem to shrink no matter how much is exhumed from his depths.

“You take home the whole library?” Shiro asks lightly, drawing on another sip.

Keith levels a glare his way. Shiro grins into it.

“ _Oh_ , right. It's just part of what the kids are up to, these days,” he amends.

“I have a lot of work,” Keith replies matter-of-factly, cracking open one of the volumes obscuring the tabletop.

“Naturally,” Shiro replies. Keith takes a moment to hold his gaze, make sure the glare _really_ sinks in, maybe, before turning back to his work. Shiro lets him for at _least_ a whole minute before adding, “So you're telling me there's _no_ way you can take a break even after the last bell rings?”

“ _Shiro_ ,” Keith says.

“I have every faith that your calculus won't run off if you leave it unattended long enough for a piece of pie.”

“It's ancient civ.”

“Oh, well in _that_ case...”

Keith stares him down, and Shiro unflinchingly meets his gaze until Keith finally sighs, pulls one of the napkins from the dispenser, and shoves it between the pages as he closes the booth. Shiro makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat and puts his mug down in order to lace his fingers together and rest his chin on them.

“ _Aw_. You're so good to me,” he says, grinning and overly sweet. He's rewarded with a pretty champion eye roll.

“Someone has to be,” Keith replies. But even with the dryness coloring his tone, he clears enough of a space to place something other than a book in front of himself. Just in time, too, when the shadow falls over their table and Shiro cants his head up enough to send the saccharine grin Adam's way.

“ _Please_ help me make sure that Keith doesn't accidentally bury himself in schoolwork. Death by textbook avalanche would make for a terrible obituary.”

“So does death by caffeine overdose,” Adam replies without missing a beat, turning away in the same breath. “Hi, Keith.”

“Hey.” Keith's reply is short and quiet, and his gaze falls to the table. Shiro takes a moment to watch him, the line of his lips softening along with the set of his shoulders. Keith's hair is getting a little long in the back, catching on the back of his jacket, but even muted and a little distant, his expression isn't so – sunken.

Shiro exhales almost luxuriously, and in that one motion his grin is sparkling again.

“Alright, Keith, what's it gonna be?”

Keith is silent for a moment before glancing up – Shiro first before Adam – and requesting, quick and half swallowed, “I'll take coffee.”

All is silent – Adam's pen is still against his pad and Shiro knows well enough to brace for the fallout when he turns. “You're a terrible influence on him.”

“ _Thank_ you. It's one of my proudest accomplishments.”

He is summarily ignored in favor of Adam turning to Keith, leaning down enough to catch even his reluctant gaze. His energy is almost a tangible thing, serious and quiet but somehow losing none of its warmth. It is familiar enough that Shiro finds he cannot look away even though they have replayed this scene so many, many, countless times.

“You're going to turn into _him_ if you keep this up.” Adam jerks his head Shiro's direction. “Please think carefully about your life choices.”

Keith's lips twitch. When he looks up and catches Shiro's eye, they _almost_ pull into a smile. He still waits a second or two, and when he replies his voice is just as quiet – but clearer. Firmer. “I already have.”

To his credit, Adam doesn't belabor his loss. He merely sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and straightens up. “At least remember that I've warned you. Both of you. Plenty of times.”

“D'you have this delicate, friendly touch with _all_ your customers?” There's a ghost of a laugh woven through Shiro's words. “Because if you do make a habit of dissuading people from spending money at your establishment, I don't know how you're still in business.”

– It's a second between the time the words leave his lips and the silence that greets him that Shiro feels as though he's missed a step. The rhythm he'd lived over the last few minutes, the one he expects, doesn't rise up to meet him. In the span of one breath, off time from the rest, he looks away from Keith and back up at Adam. And it's only then, when he realizes that Adam's expression is caught halfway between two unreadable, inscrutable emotions that it dawns on Shiro how _strange_ it is, that any of Adam's expressions are _unreadable, inscrutable_.

He parts his lips to say something but that's exactly when Adam adjusts his glasses and there it is, painted across the lines of his face: dry humor, exasperation, disinterest. All those things that Shiro has made knowable through the years. He watches that _knowable_ unfold, even after Adam has started speaking and Shiro finds himself scrambling to catch up.

“Well, I have my excellent cooking skills in my favor,” is what it turns out to be, chiding and playful and a little distant. “One coffee, got it.”

He's already turned away by the time Shiro manages to stitch his wits back together to yell, “Pie!” at Adam's back. Which, of course, means that Adam turns to him with a mixture of bemusement and irritation that has Shiro _continuing_ to scramble to clarify, “ _Sorry_ , uh – I meant. Pie. _Your_ pie. Unmatched. It's definitely great, it's –” Then, quietly defeated, “– Bring a piece for Keith.”

Adam doesn't let him off the hook for another moment, until he finally nods and disappears behind the counter. Shiro sinks down a little in his chair. Keith raises a brow. They stare at each other.

“– Wow,” is what Keith decides on. “Maybe I _do_ need to rethink my life choices.”

“Oh, go back to your ancient civ.”  
  


* * *

“Hire a chef.”

“You look radiant when you're mad at me and chopping every vegetable on the east coast.”

“Bold of you, when I'm holding a knife.”

“You're always holding a knife.”

“I don't see how that changes anything.”

The kitchen is a flurry of movement. Even as he leans against one of the counters lining the perimeter, the staff is moving between the islands. Camila, though, does take enough time to send a scathing look his way before returning to her work of carefully, and blindingly quickly, parsing a cornucopia of carrots into equivalently sized disks. It never leaves his lips, but the thought is there that perhaps there _is_ something a little daring about provoking someone so skilled with a chef's knife.

But, of course, it won't stop either of them.

“A _year and a half_ ,” Camila says, dumping carrot pieces in a silver mixing bowl twice the size of her head. “You asked me a _year and a half_ ago to fill in temporarily –”

“Pulling you away from the garage you love,” Shiro adds by heart.

“Pulling me _away_ from the _garage_ I _love_ ,” she parrots, “To fill a vacancy on your staff. All the while telling me that this would be a temporary measure.”

“And here you are, a year and a half later.”

“And here I am.”

“ _Cami_.” Shiro moves to the island she's stationed at, bracing himself with both hands. She doesn't stop chopping. “My buddy through thick and thin. _Please_ do me this favor.”

“I don't see why you need a spread from me this time – you're best friends with every single food place in the entire town. Why can't you just eat Adam's tonight?”

Shiro draws a breath, then leans in. “Because he got in.”

Camila hesitates. “– Adam?”

“Keith.”

“Keith – got in?”

“To the Garrison Academy.”

Camila stops and puts the knife down altogether.

“He got _in_?” The grin blossoms slowly at her lips. “He got _in_.”

“He _got in_.”

She sucks in a breath and ducks her head, ostensibly to hide the softness of her smile that blooms irrepressibly at her lips. “God – I knew he could.”

“Me too,” Shiro replies, quiet and gentle. “But it's still something.”

“ _Yeah_. It is.” Camila's voice catches, but when she looks back up her expression is fixed firmly in place – clinical and strict. “Okay. I'll do the tostadas you like, and the sorullitos. And that peach cobbler. But I'm also making a salad and _you're_ going to eat it. And enjoy it.”

“Yessir,” Shiro replies, thrilled. And even though he knows he'll get nothing but a gruff sound in return, he can't help but add, “Thanks, Cami.”

A gruff sound he does receive – fortunately, the threat of sentimentality is interrupted by the main doors swinging open with more force than any of the kitchen staff usually resorts to. Shiro turns on his heel just in time to see Veronica crossing the distance between them, her normally serene expression marred with a kind of exasperation that has him standing up straight.

“Veronica?”

“Shiro, _please_ help. It's not that it's usually a problem, but he's in a _mood_ again and I don't want to waste time reassuring the guests that everything is fine –”

“I'm on it, no worries.”

Behind him, Camila snorts. “You make problems for yourself, you know.”

“Friends aren't problems.”

“ _Mhm_.”  
  


* * *

_The Russet Hart_ touts a glowing reputation on the northeastern seaboard. Not only does it boast the best reviews of any inn in the state, it has, in recent years, climbed to the top of every vacation guide on the first three pages of search results. With a limited but vibrant menu and unparalleled customer service, it plays host to events and tourists year round.

And, currently, a graduate student frantically burning a hole through the antique rug in the lobby.

Shiro smiles at staff and guest alike as he directs traffic towards the garden or the dining room, thinning the concerned crowd on his way to get to Matt. Matt, notices neither Shiro's approach nor his first two attempts at getting his attention. He's too preoccupied with the steady stream of technical jargon that Shiro cannot and does not want to decode at the moment.

So he reaches out to shake Matt's shoulder. At least the reaction he receives is pretty funny.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Are you trying to give _yourself_ a heart attack?”

“Shiro this is _**not**_ the the time for jokes – my entire life is at stake, here.”

“Ah, my mistake then. Let's give this the attention it needs and sit.”

Matt allows himself to be led to one of the couches in the lobby, much softer than its ornate appearance portrays. As Shiro sinks into the cushion it occurs to him, briefly, how long it's been since he'd last sat down. But there's no real time to think on that when Matt is already well into rattling off what seems to be the problem this time.

“– which is completely unreasonable. _How_ do you approve a capstone project only to revoke your approval pending review by a second committee? I'm _months_ into this research, I have close to a hundred pages and I'm barely halfway through my first draft – I have _three_ advisors on board to supervise and suddenly they decide to enforce archaic technicalities? Oh my god, what if they decide _no_ – there's gotta be someone I can complain to. Can I sue an entire school? Maybe if I get material on the President –”

“Please don't blackmail anyone,” Shiro interrupts quietly. Matt stumbles, taking the opportunity of his own silence to take a breath.

“– I didn't say blackmail.”

“You implied it. I think. You are talking pretty fast, there.”

“ _Sorry_.” Matt sighs deeply and, after a moment, drops his head back against the couch. “I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. If they decide to pull the plug – even if they don't, I'm just in this limbo of what the hell is going on. I'm going to be _so_ behind, I have _deadlines_. Emphasis on the dead please and thanks.”

“You just found out today?”

“Like, thirty five minutes ago.”

“So – five minutes before you decided to hop in your car and drive thirty minutes from Yale?”

“Your point?”

Shiro arches a brow, lips pulled disbelieving to the side. “Isn't there anyone you can, or need, to complain at at school? Why would you come _here_?”

“ _You're_ here.”

His breath catches in his throat. Something burns in the back of his throat. Matt's looking at him with wide eyes and so shaken that Shiro doesn't doubt his honesty to any capacity. Nevermind the fact that he has absolutely no control over what Matt's doctoral council decides to do – but then, there are other things in this world beyond the pragmatic.

He reaches over and places one hand on Matt's knee. In that one motion, that one point of contact, Shiro feels some of the tension release in Matt's frame like the snapping of a rubber band.

“Want me to yell at all your teachers for you?”

“Please, Pops.”

Shiro grins at the nickname that, at its inception, has settled wrong under his skin. “Talk to them. At a speed and pitch that most humans can understand. And don't assume that they're going to say no. Sometimes protocol just needs to be followed so everyone can check their boxes, dot their i's, cross their t's.”

“– That's logical.”

“And remember to breathe once in a while.”

“No guarantees.”

Slowly, surely, a smile crosses Matt's lips. He sits up, placing one elbow on his free knee and propping his chin on his hand. “Miracle worker.”

“Minor league,” Shiro clarifies primly. “Low stakes miracles only. Hey, if you're in town are you going to pick up Katie?”

“Pidge.” Matt takes his turn to clarify. “She really likes the nickname now. And probably not, she's at your place.”

“ _My_ place. Even when the _me_ that makes it my place is here?”

“She's with Keith, they're fine.”

“You could ask, first.”

“After all this time? You insult me.”

“Ah, my bad, then.” Shiro pauses, and his smile grows sparkling once more. “You guys should come over tonight. We're celebrating.”

“Hey! I love parties.” Matt's grinning too, soft and casual. “What's the occasion?”

“Keith got in.”

There's something intoxicating about the moment between the news and the realization – watching someone's grin grow as ecstatic as his own, the mirrored excitement. Matt doesn't disappoint. In fact, he throws his arms around Shiro's shoulders to punctuate the moment.

“That's awesome! He's going to _love_ it, he's gonna do so great.”

“Yeah, he really is. So Cami's making a giant spread – come. Bring Pidge. It'll be fun. We'll put on some movie and stuff our faces.”

“So it's like a Tuesday night.”

“Basically. But with more things to look forward to.”

“Count me in.”  
  


* * *

Pidge watches Keith stomp around the kitchen from over the top of her glasses. She hadn't known that her question would incite _quite_ this reaction – but it hadn't been out of the realm of plausible hypotheses. He's prone to his storm cloud thing, after all, and the unpredictability of what makes those clouds gather is its own kind of predictability. She lets him grab the dishes with more force than necessary for a while, but after the third time he closes the fridge door too hard she decides that that, at least, needs an advocate to step in.

“Can you really blame me for asking? It's kind of a big deal.”

“I don't want to talk about it, I _just_ said.”

“Yeah, I got that from all the stomping and slamming.”

“I'm not slamming anything!” It's that moment that he decides to gesture with the plate in his hand – and rams it into the cabinet, snapping it clean in half. For a few long, quiet, moments they both stare at the half a plate in Keith's hand, at the other half that has fallen to the counter and collected a few spiderwebbing cracks for its trouble.

 _Oh_. He _really_ didn't want to talk about it.

Pidge's heartbeat races a little in the aftermath, but it seems that the sound of the ceramic breaking has precipitated a change. Keith's shoulders slump forward as he sweeps the broken half onto the more whole one and dumps both into the garbage. Then he proceeds to make sure the counter is clear of debris, sweeping the whole thing over and over and over against with a handful of paper towels. He keeps his back to Pidge.

She fidgets with the overlong sleeves of her sweater, both legs drawn up under her where she's perched on the chair. Her eyes track the tabletop when she finds she can't look at Keith anymore.

“– Sorry,” she says, quietly enough that she's surprised he can hear her over his cleaning.

Actually, for a second it looks like he doesn't. But then he slows and stops and sighs and says, “Me too. Sorry.”

They leave it like that for a few minutes more. Keith finally seems satisfied that the evidence of his outburst is gone, and crosses over to the fridge – opens the door without making all the food inside rattle – and retrieves a pizza box. No plates required, then, when he places it on the table and takes the seat opposite his friend.

“But I don't want to talk about it.”

“ _Yeah_ , but –” Pidge is careful, but she can't really help it – not when Keith is her friend and the whole thing is so _exciting_. “I just mean – I'd _kill_ to get into the Garrison. You can learn so much, and basically get any job you want in like, math or physics or anything like that.”

“I know that.”

“You _love_ math.”

“I know that, too.”

“I just don't see what the problem is.” Pidge lets her hands fall to the table, some fabric still tangled in her fingers. “It's a dream come true. Matt and Shiro both loved it when they went.”

“– Yeah. They did.”

The hesitation gets her attention. She stares at him, open and scrutinizing, unmasked because if he has a problem with it, he shouldn't be her friend. He knows her well enough by now to know that this was always inevitable. She searches his face – the way his gaze is dark (but not as dark as it used to be), the furrow in his brow, the way his jaw is locked tight.

“Wait, d'you not like that they went there? That Shiro went there?”

Keith says nothing. Pidge picks up momentum.

“Are you – mad? Are you jealous? Why would it matter that he went there? He can tell you everything you need to know about it – it'll be a breeze to get used to it.”

“I don't need his help.”

“Uh, that's never gonna not happen. He's your _brother_. I think Matt's gonna treat me like a baby until I outlive him by finding out how to transplant my consciousness into a robot.”

“I _don't_ need his help.”

“Touchy.” Pidge leans back, lips twisting into a pout. But she hasn't admitted defeat just yet. “You'd be great there. You're way smarter than most people I know.”

“That's not a guarantee.”

“Yeah, it –” A few disparate wires spitting electrical current finally weld together for her. Keith's reluctance, the way he looks like he's going to break his teeth for how tightly they're clenched together, the sudden realization it wasn't _her_ brother that carried the reputation of _golden boy_ at Garrison Academy High School so profoundly that they still keep pictures of him on the wall.

– It's not a full picture, but there's more logic in it now than she could see before.

There's an urge tugging at her to say – _something_. Even something as cursory as triumph over putting together pieces that Keith has been obfuscating. But – she looks at the set of his expression and, instead, reaches forward to grab a slice of pizza.

And then she says, instead, “Shiro's probably coming home with a whole feast, you know. And my brother, if he can drag his nose out of a book.”

Keith glances up at her. His lips twitch.

She plows on. “So it's probably super irresponsible to eat tons of leftovers. We won't have any room for whatever he had Cami make.”

“Yeah.” Keith says the word gingerly, almost as if he's testing it out. But more of the tension leave his face and his frame and he does, in fact, lean forward to get a slice for himself.

“We should prove we're mature.”

“We should.”

“So – like two slices each?”

“Three at the most.”  
  


* * *

They've made their way through three and a half slices each and are sprawled out on the couch when the front door opens. Pidge raises an eyebrow, and though she doesn't make any more to articulate verbally what she means, Keith perfectly reads that particular emotion she so often has – the one that's just _waiting_ to be proven right. He, in turn, sighs and flops his head against the back of the couch to listen.

“We're home!” Shiro calls from the front hall, followed by the sound of jackets and jingling keys. Pidge pumps her fist a few times and holds up one finger.

“We?” Keith asks, feigning all innocence.

“I've got Matt here.”

Pidge grins a hundred watt smile.

“And food!”

And that's her cue to hold up a second finger, _two out of two_. Keith bumps his elbow against her arm.

“We're in the living room.”

Shiro rounds the corner, arms full of containers of every shape and size. Keith pushes himself off the couch to help, taking some of them into his own hold. They're warm and heavy and smell so familiar that for a moment, he's dizzy with the nostalgia. If he tries, he can guess by smell and intuition alone what Cami has packed for them for the night. But, instead, he glances over at his brother. Shiro's directing Matt to set down his own packages and get plates and glasses from the kitchen. There's a certain – slackness in Shiro's expression. As if Keith can see the tension that usually lines his face for the lack of it, for the way there is something cloudless in the set of his lips and the way his eyes are warm and vibrant and alive.

He shifts his weight, then turns to start unpacking the spread on the coffee table.

“I hope you guys didn't each too much,” Shiro says as he joins in, pulling out the least healthy food Cami's ever willing to make.

“No,” Pidge pipes up immediately. Shiro grins.

“So you finished off my pizza?”

“We left you a slice,” Keith replies.

“So thoughtful.” Shiro reaches out and gently ruffles his brother's hair. When Keith bats his hand away, it is halfhearted at best and does nothing to diminish the smile on Shiro's lips. “Well, nothing wrong with a good food stupor.”

It doesn't surprise him, that Shiro refrains from calling it a celebration. Or, god forbid, a _party_. Pidge doesn't shoot him any looks, and Matt doesn't even say anything to the effect when he returns with utensils and drinks.

“Best kind of stupor,” is all he says as he puts his own things down, then crosses to the couch to greet Pidge by way of poking her head. “Hey, brat.”

“Dork. You finally put down your thesis?”

“ _Capstone_ , it's a _capstone_.”

“I know.”

“Brat,” Matt reiterates, but they're both grinning at each other. Keith decides to sit where he is, settling on the floor, close enough to use the coffee table as an actual table. As if on cue, a plate appears in front of him, placed by alloy fingers that he has grown entirely familiar with over the years. Shiro grins at him when he looks up, and punctuates the expression by wagging his eyebrows.

“Dig in.”

Matt's made a home for himself on the couch, and as if it's the most natural thing in the world, Shiro sits right to Keith's right side, pulling one of the cartons to himself in the process.

“– Cami made a salad?” Keith asks, relaxing into his seat.

“Yeah – a fancy one, apparently, with tons of stuff in it.”

“So she's hiding vegetables to make you eat them.”

“ _Keith_ , c'mon.”

“I'm gonna tell her if you don't make an attempt.”

“Now that's just cruel.”

“I'm so proud of you, Keith,” Matt interjects, leaning forward to grab one of the dumplings. “Do no harm, take no crap.”

“ _You're_ one to talk,” Pidge says, stealing all her food from off of Matt's plate. “When's the last time you ate something that doesn't come out of a microwave?”

“Hey! There'll be time for better eating habits when my project's finished.”

“Ah. The _thesis_.”

“ _Katie_.”

As the Holts fall into a pattern of bickering as well worn and well known as everything else, Keith glances at Shiro from his periphery. His brother spends a few moments watching the other two, amusement written into his expression, and then he turns his attention back to his food. Keith watches as Shiro does take a heaping helping of salad onto his plate, and valiantly begins to work his way through eating it.

In the midst of so many things up in the air – things he cannot understand or process or even name, now – there is nothing he knows better than the warmth of his friends sitting across from him. Of his brother sitting next to him.

Keith leans his head against Shiro's shoulder. Without missing a beat, Shiro switches his fork to his other hand and places his newly freed one on Keith's leg.

“Now if only you'd let me eat my weight in tostadas alone. _That'd_ make it perfect.”

“Shut up.” 

 


	2. paging mr. blue sky.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> early mornings and the beginning of things are prime opportunities for conversations large and small.

The toaster is buzzing and he _never_ knows what to do about that.

Or, it's a toss up whether not he knows what to do. But every time he _does_ , there's still something else in the way. The outlet sparking or the lights being out or now, when his toolbox just refuses to open. Shiro fiddles with the latch – which, of course, means that he has a knife jammed in the space between the lid and the box in a desperate at getting them to part.

It'd all be easier if the toaster wasn't buzzing at him, insistent and unending. _Brr Brr Brr_ , at even intervals. Loud enough to flood the house with noise, and loud enough that he keeps fumbling with the knife. It occurs to him, for one vague moment, that there are better things to use, things less likely to take one of his fingers (all of them malleable, vulnerable flesh). But all he _has_ is the knife – if he had tools available, he wouldn't need to open the box.

“Shiro.”

Shiro doesn't need to turn to know Keith's voice and place him as standing in the vicinity of the doorway.

“I'm almost done,” he says, the only reply he can manage when the toolbox – the buzzing ( _Brr Brr Brr_ ) of the toaster – needs his attention. But he can feel he weight of Keith's presence at his back, large and undeniable and beckoning him even in the silence.

But, the toaster.

“ _Shiro_ ,” Keith says again, a little more of a sigh in his voice.

“I'm almost done,” Shiro repeats, fumbling with the knife when an ache blooms suddenly in his shoulder in a thumping, steady rhythm and he cannot place it.

“Firefly,” Keith says this time. Shiro's shoulder throbs in time with the name and he knows, instantly, that he has to _finish_ this.

“Five more minutes.”

“Shiro, _now_. We're _already late_.”

“What?”

“ _Shiro_!”

Shiro opens his eyes to sunlight falling through the window and pooling across the sheets he's lying on top of. On the nightstand next to him, his alarm is blaring its usual call – _Brr Brr Brr_. Oh. Right. For a moment that barely lasts the span of a breath, Shiro sits up and glances down at his hands – spreads out his alloy and natural fingers and recalibrates himself by virtue of the familiar sight. The dream too, now, is falling into the ken of the familiar, well tread territory over the years.

A good thing, because it's only a few seconds later before a pillow hits the side of his head.

“I'm _literally_ sitting upright, that's just overkill.”

“Yeah, when we should be halfway down the _parkway_ by now.”

“ _Keith_.” Shiro stretches, working through the ache that pulses down his right side without letting his expression flicker once. “My alarm is just going off _now_. Which means it's not even six.”

“Except for the fact that you forgot to set the new time.”

“There's absolutely no way that I –”

And it's then that Shiro jerks back to avoid an alarm clock being shoved into his nose and adding to the collection of marks across it. He blinks his eyes open as much as they'll go – which isn't as much as would be truly acceptable, but it _is_ enough to read the large, insistently blinking 7:15 on the screen. A few times. At least three. Maybe a fourth. Because he'd _told himself_ to set it more than hour early before he went to bed –

Except. He hadn't _gone_ to bed, had he? Because he doesn't normally fall asleep on _top_ of the sheets in his clothes from yesterday and his prosthetic attached. Or, rather, he doesn't when he doesn't pass out over the paperwork that's scattered across the duvet instead of actually _going_ to bed.

Which would make this 7:15.

Which would make _them_ –

“We're late!” Keith has not moved from the side of the bed, and when Shiro looks he can now see the lines of frustration, and perhaps some of worry, marring his brother's expression. “You _said_ you were taking me today, so I didn't wait for the bus and it's going to take at least a half an hour to get there –”

“– _Shit_.”

Shiro has already flung himself off the edge of the bed and is at his closet before he remembers to tack onto the end of that, “Wait, pretend you didn't hear that.”

Instead of some biting retort or incredulous look or, hope beyond hope, a continuing of the bit on Keith's part, Keith only crosses his arms against his chest and says, “What are you doing? You're already dressed, let's _go_.”

“I –” _Oh_. Right. Shiro pauses in his quest to find a shirt, tries to scrub his right hand over his face, realizes just in time that he'll be flinching if he does, then drops his hand and sinks into a clipped, direct tone. “Wait in the car, I'll be there in two minutes.”

“Shiro –”

Shiro turns to him, meets his gaze without hesitation. “I _promise_.”

Keith opens his mouth as if to say something, but it's only another second before he nods and shifts his backpack higher up on his shoulder and runs out the door. Shiro watches him go, breathing a single, heavy sigh – then promptly finds his shoes and trips his way into the bathroom in that specific, frenetic order.

The silver lining, of course, is that the entire two minutes and thirty seconds is spent smoothing his hair and fixing his face and getting his shoes on right, and none of it leaves any room to think about his brother waiting for him in the car. Or his own lapse in judgement, and the acrid taste of failure that it brings with it. No, his heart does not have a chance to lodge in his throat when his attention is better spent making sure that his trip down the stairs and out the door is done while remaining fully upright the entire time.

And he manages it, all the way to dumping himself in the front seat of the Jeep and shoving the key in the ignition before he even turns to shoot Keith a look, brows raised.

“– Two minutes, _forty five_ seconds.”

“... Shit.”  
  


* * *

They finish the thirty minute drive in twenty, which only puts a small dent in the lateness of the morning. But it doesn't stop either of them from standing in front of the Jeep, heads tilted back in unison, taking in the massive arches and sweeping, towering stories that comprise the Garrison Academy High School. Keith's arms are crossed against his chest and Shiro's left hand is braced against the notch above his hip; both rest against the front bumper.

“It looks...” Keith starts the thought but allows it to trail into a quiet, dwindling nothing. Shiro hums for a moment in reply, searching for his own words.

“– Different,” is what he emerges with. Keith turns to look at him, even when Shiro's eyes remain fixed on the building's exterior until he's called to attention by his brother's voice.

“... Yeah?”

When Shiro turns, he is struck for a moment by Keith's face. The way his eyes are open, fully, and ringed with fewer lines and dark shadows than Shiro has come to expect. There's a kind of – gentleness to it, and the way it makes him look truly and honestly _sixteen_ knocks the wind out of Shiro's lungs. He doesn't turn back to his staring – even knowing full well that any overture of softness is skating into dangerous territory, he is helpless to resist this moment they've carved out: quiet and theirs.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Keith's lips twitch a little – curious, maybe even pulling into a fraction of a smile. “Smaller?”

“Bigger, actually.”

Shiro watches the disbelief flicker across Keith's expression, and then he watches it melt into something that looks like amusement or acceptance or both. When his brother snorts and ducks his head, Shiro allows himself a ghosting, warm laugh.

And it's a risky gambit, but Shiro only lingers a moment more in their comfortable silence before murmuring, but firmly, “You've got this.”

Keith jerks his head back up, all of that openness gone under the startled and half inscrutable look he shoots. “You can't know that.”

“I know many things,” Shiro replies without missing a beat, ignoring the way concern flickers in the pit of his stomach. Riding the momentum of this back and forth that feels like – like it _used to_ if he's remembering correctly, he doesn't hesitate in reaching and dropping his right hand on Keith's shoulder. “You're gonna be great. Now, go.”

– At which he's promptly shot a look like he's suddenly grown two extra heads.

“– What?”

“Shiro.”

“Yes, that would be me. _What's_ wrong?”

Keith's getting really good at that whole _kill them with a glance_ thing. If superpowers were a thing, Shiro's sure he'd be at least halfway to dying by now.

“Are you serious, right now?”

“Typically, yes.”

“ _Shiro_. You have to _come in_ with me.”

All Shiro can do in the wake of the revelation is – stare. Owlishly. Un-comprehendingly. Keith's expression doesn't flicker once, no longer youthfully open but hard around the edges, drawn in deeper set lines and the way his already dark irises seem to darken further still, refusing to be broken up by the overcast autumn sunlight.

“– Keith, I'm – ” wearing _yesterday's_ clothes. He hasn't shaved. He hasn't had _coffee_. There are a hundred reasons as to why he is certainly not presentable enough for anyone in any of those offices – particularly if there's anyone around that might _know_ him – but all it takes is dwelling on any reason for more than a heartbeat for it to feel more like an _excuse_ dissolving into bitter ash. His stomach will not tolerate the selfishness of his own embarrassment, not on top of his growing string of failures today.

Shiro swallows, draws a steadying breath. “– You're right. Sorry, it must have slipped my mind. Let's – let's get you all signed in.”

Keith looks as if he wants to say something, but whatever it would have been is lost and he allows himself to be guided through the massive, deeply brown oak front doors.  
  


* * *

If it's possible, it's even bigger inside than it is outside. Which, honestly? It could be – the Garrison was always on the cutting edge of both technology and intimidation. Shiro is struck, the moment he steps across the threshold and takes in the view of the sweeping, overlarge staircase curving up to the next floor, by a strange estuary of a feeling – of the familiar and known flowing backwards into the rush of hesitation and unease. It's as if he's been swallowed by the past in one fell swoop, all of his years lost to the golden haze of what had been high school.

Right there, on the inside hook of the staircase, had been so many furtive conversations, rushed between classes. Right up on the landing, tucked into the alcove, a stolen first kiss. Hours spent studying in the library as the sun filtered through the arching windows and their thick, old glass panes. If he strains, he can almost _hear_ the sound of at least twenty dogs running through the hallways the year one of the senior classes decided to pull off the most daring prank in the school's history.

Shiro's left hand reaches for the polished wood of the bannister, fingers a breath away from pressing against its glossed surface, when he feels the pressure of Keith bumping against his shoulder.

That's all it is, then. Shiro reels back into his body and his moment by the time they've reached the second floor, composed himself enough to look over at his brother. The expression painted across Keith's case might read, to someone uninitiated, as defiant. There's no arguing the strength in his clenched jaw or the way his stare has sharpened with hundred-yard tenacity. The set of Shiro's lips softens.

“Hey,” he says, serene and confident and reaches out again to place his hand on Keith's shoulder. “I meant it. I still mean it. You're going to be great.”

Something flickers across Keith's face, something else that Shiro can't quite read. But he _can_ feel some of the tension knotted up in Keith and strung out between them loosen its corded hold. Shiro swipes his thumb once, twice, then lets his arm fall back to his side as he leads them, by rote, down the hall and to the peaked, mahogany door of the headmaster's office.

He _could_ remember more – the feeling of placing his small, fourteen year old hand on the door himself for the first time and feeling how heavy it was to open. The times he'd been summoned for accolades – for gentle warnings about things that no one could prove he'd done but suspected of him nonetheless. The grain of the wood, old and expensive, would feel hauntingly familiar under fingers that could feel.

Instead, Shiro knocks with the knuckles of his right hand.

“Come in,” a faint voice calls. Shooting Keith a brisk smile, Shiro doesn't linger as he pushes open the door.

He also doesn't look at the office's anteroom and everything that hasn't changed. He merely waits for Keith to fall in step with him as he approaches the reception.

“Hi, I'm dropping Keith Kogane off for his first day – I think I have to meet with the Headmaster?”

The woman working the desk, unfamiliar to him, only spares them both the quickest glance Shiro's seen before she turns to the screen in front of her, ostensibly to check their names or the schedule. It's a moment before she punctuates her work with a decisive nod.

“So you would be his guardian – Takashi Shirogane?”

“I would be, yes.”

“Alright, you can go in.”

“Thanks _so_ much.”

Shiro takes a moment to level a grin at her, wide and sunny and something he's noticed has been a fairly useful tool through the years. But this time even a quick glance seems to be too much – she's already buried in what she'd been working on. Next to him, Keith snorts so quietly that Shiro knows he wouldn't be able to pick it up if they weren't – _them_.

“Shut up,” he hisses under his breath as they move to the door behind the desk.

“I didn't say anything,” Keith replies, with all affected innocence. Shiro fixes him with a look from his periphery, then reaches out to straighten the tie Keith's wearing, emblazoned in the Garrison's signature black and gold accented by a single, thin orange stripe.

Keith says nothing with his words, but Shiro can distinctly feel the cocktail of indignation and frustration that his brother is throwing his way.

But there's no time for that, really, because _this_ door is nowhere near as heavy as the first, and twice as imposing for it as it swings silently open on its hinges. The school behind and beyond them isn't bright, persay, not in the strictest definition, with old windows and thick glass that distorts the sunlight. But it is still lightyears beyond _this_ office, constructed of deep, dark, cherry tinted oak and sconces that cast light low and still, somehow, harsh in their dimness. Everything is laid out precisely – the few pieces of artwork, carefully labeled with the names of recognizable alumni as the artists or patrons; the low, leather chairs are pristine; even the hardwood floor looks like it could gleam in the right light. The modern, where it intersects the old, is similarly particular, the computer screen glowing in a way that does not disrupt the entire aesthetic of everything clinically warm and unyielding.

Headmaster Iverson fits perfectly against this backdrop.

He is seated behind the desk but unmissable. Shiro's eyes are drawn to him immediately and he feels his spine – never slouching in the first place – straighten. Next to him, Keith shifts.

“– Hello, Sir.”

True to form, Iverson finishes typing whatever he's typing before he looks up, gaze impassive and inescapable. He spends a few, long moments fixing Shiro with a gaze that acts as perfect testament to the years he'd served in the military, climbing its ranks with insatiable determination.

( _I knew you'd get here. You remind me of myself_ , Iverson had said to him once. Just once, with a hand on his shoulder, turning to leave before Shiro could understand how to feel. What to say with the weight of Iverson's assessment and his impending graduation – the entire world – on his shoulders where Iverson's hand had been.)

If there is any recognition in Iverson's gaze, beyond a perfunctory acknowledgement of having met, Shiro cannot see it. Cannot see the remembrance of the four year's he'd spent here. But he also doesn't look for it. After a second caught in the thrall of memory and some distinctly _too-human_ guilt and regret and embarrassment, he waits for Iverson to turn his attention to Keith, then step out from behind his desk.

Iverson moves to his own tempo, which Shiro realizes is entirely unsurprising. It's a regimented tempo, slow and self possessed, taking a beat even when he's standing. Shiro doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Iverson breaks the concentration he'd leveled solely on Keith and Keith gets through it without a single comment.

“Takashi Shirogane.” Iverson's voice hasn't changed either – clipped and brokering no argument, colored by the memory of a drawl. Shiro draws a breath.

“Yes. I, uh – it's Keith's first day so I'm – here to drop him off.”

Shiro can _feel_ the way he bumps into every word like many bulls in so little of a china shop, but it seems that every time he reaches for his wits they fall right from his hands once more.

“I know.” Iverson barks a sigh, then promptly returns to sitting behind his desk. Apparently, the inspection has already been concluded. If Shiro had to hazard a guess, he'd certainly assume he failed it. Even if he still cannot read Iverson's expression, nor should any of this really be about _him_.

“Well – then! Here he is.” Not all too composed, Shiro places his hand against Keith's back. “All ready to, uh – to start. The day. To start his classes.”

A long, laden moment passes in absolute silence before Iverson finally raises a brow and nods. “I know that, too.”

Shiro glances away from him, over at Keith, then back across the desk. A beat, another one, then, “Okay, so I'll –”

“You'll get going,” Iverson finishes for him. “So _Keith_ can get started.”

“... Right.” Shiro smooths out his tone, but turns to Keith before he leaves. “I'll see you later. – Have a great first day.”

After a moment of silence, and not meeting his gaze, Keith murmurs, “Yeah.”

And that's – it. Shiro steps back, takes in the sight of Keith in his Garrison uniform, brighter than the dark room all around him. He feels something soft and warm melt within the cavern of his chest, tugging on the frazzled ends of his nerves and the smile that crosses his lips sparks with more sincerity than anything he's managed today.

He doesn't know if Keith sees it, but he doesn't have time to linger on the thought or in the room. The moment passes and he sees himself out.  
  


* * *

He's never wished to fire absolutely everyone he works with, and he doesn't now _entirely_ , but he's closer than he's ever been.

Not that he's completely faultless here – but in his defense, was he supposed to react with _grace_ when Cami informed him that they were, in fact, out of coffee? Or isn't it excusable that he launch into a six minute diatribe bemoaning their lack of foresight in switching coffee suppliers because why in the _world_ did they need to switch suppliers in the first place? Was their original stock just that jarringly terrible that they couldn't suffer it one day longer? And wasn't it the job of the executive chef to keep the kitchen stocked at all times, thanks very much?

Well. Excusable or not, Cami had met his crusade with a look, and then a shoving out the door not to return for the rest of the day.

So that's how Veronica finds him: slumped over the front desk, his chin cradled in his alloy fingers as he watches the inn's longtime harpist squabble with their valet.

“Showdown?” She asks, leaning her hip against the desk.

“I've been exiled,” Shiro replies, tracking the movement of the other two across the lobby.

Veronica makes a distinct clicking noise of chastisement. “Well you know better than any of us not to insult her food.”

“I didn't insult anything!”

“Oh?”

“I mean – no. Not really.”

“Oh.”

“– I uh, might have insulted her kitchen management.”

“ _Oh_.”

A groan rumbles in the back of his throat, and he indicates for Veronica to keep one eye on the escalating conflict opposite them as he presses his face against the palm of his hand. It doesn't do much for the headache pulsing dully at his temples, and makes the pull against his shoulder blade infinitely harder to ignore. The blunted ache of this morning flares into something hot and knife edged and for a moment, Shiro stills entirely to let the sensation play out to its inevitable end, so that he can scrape together enough resources not to make a sound.

That, at least, he succeeds at. By the time he looks back up, Veronica is still focused on the scene across from them, and unless she has suddenly developed an unrivaled poker face, she hasn't detected anything amiss.

“So what's the problem this time?” She asks idly, jerking her chin in their direction.

“A crime against humanity, apparently.”

“That bad?”

“Derek –” The explanation is cut short by a particularly loud spike in the back and forth. Veronica and Shiro wince in unison. “– Moved her case.”

“Her _case_?” Veronica punctuates the question with a gasp, only half-affected for the sake of exaggeration. “And he's still alive?”

“I guess my _no homicide where the guests can see_ rule is being followed.”

“You're a great leader, that's why.”

Shiro had been half expecting the joking reply – the _oh captain, my captain_ , or the _you're batting a thousand, then_. Veronica's sincerity isn't so deep and so serious, but it catches on a jagged end of Shiro's attention that he didn't know was there. A breath in and a breath out and he turns just enough to catch her expression – soft and familiar.

He smiles.

“Okay.” Standing up straight is more than a chore than he allows his expression to show in any way, shape, or form. “New plan – you take up the back room and see if you can get some coffee catered for the whole staff, on me, and a few bags delivered today for dinner service tonight. – Maybe order flowers for our executive chef.”

“Flowers?”

“– Right. A new aloe plant.”

“Much better. Also, why can't I use the desk phone?”

“Because.” Once he's standing fully upright, Shiro rolls both his shoulders back bleeds the motion into a neck roll to ease the burning down his shoulder blade. “I'm going to try to break that up and you don't need to get caught in the fallout.”

Veronica makes a small sound in the back of her throat – then the smile blooms soft and sure at her lips and she reaches out to brush her hand against his natural elbow.

“You're a real hero, you know?”

Shiro takes a moment to laugh. “I try, but you might want to save the really nice stuff for my eulogy.”

“Godspeed, then.”  
  


* * *

Of all the things that have been achingly familiar today, Shiro thinks his favorite might be the bell above the door to Adam's. It chimes the way it always has – at least once, usually twice a day for years and years and years. He delights in the sound and the hum of the scattered crowd inside, and the smell of food and coffee coming from the kitchen. If it was admissible, he'd stay _right here_ , in this spot, long enough to forget as much of this day as possible.

But he's also not looking to cause too much of a problem, so instead of potentially interrupting the flow of traffic in and out the door, Shiro finds his usual table and drops into the seat – quiet, trying for subtlety, but a little graceless all the same. Outside the window, the sun is just starting to dip towards the lower half of the sky as afternoon whispers against the edge of evening. It casts a warm glow, turning the shadows blue and the light rosy, and he finds that he's lost himself in the sight of the town until his attention is called elsewhere.

“Well, don't you look all polished and put together.”

Shiro is _just_ a hair sluggish in turning, but the smile he shoots Adam is no less amused and cheery than it ever is.

“Didn't you hear? Disheveled's back in style. I'm actually very fashionable.”

“A real model.”

He doesn't realize that he's doing it – fixing Adam with a look as distant and lingering as he had the view from the window. Almost as if he's found some middle distance but still engages with taking in the sight of Adam. The familiar curve of his cheek and the soft fall of his hair –

“Hey.” – It's Shiro's turn to return the banter but Adam has beat him to it. When Shiro blinks back into full awareness, he realizes that a line has crossed Adam's brow, painting it with the kind of determination that Shiro has seen him reserve for the Times crossword or a particularly engaging hypothetical question. He is struck by it – by the _weight_ of it, something he hadn't realized existed until he found himself the focus of that look. “You alright?”

“ _Oh_ – yeah.” Spacing out would be a good way to describe it, right? The lingering and contemplating and being a beat behind? Spacing out, but fine otherwise. “Yeah, sorry. We ran out of coffee at the inn.”

“Ah. So that explains the wardrobe choice, too?” There is a little dent that appears at the corner of Adam's mouth when he twists his lips that way – _almost_ a dimple, but smaller and softer, warming the cut of his jaw. Shiro blinks.

“– It's a long story, and not all that interesting. Late night, forgot the alarm clock.”

Adam raises a brow.

“– It was, uh, Keith's first day at the Garrison.”

Adam raises _both_ brows. The little dent disappears but that's because the softness moves to his lips, parting a little as processes. “ _Oh_. That's – pretty big.”

“Yeah. – _Yeah_ , it is.” Shiro realizes he's leaning in a little, sitting a little straighter when Adam doesn't walk away. Not that he ever has before – not that he has ever seemed uninterested in Keith or talking about events large and small in Keith's life. Not that he has ever indicated that he'd rather not care about the whole _all of it_.

Shiro watches him. Adam doesn't look away.

Until he does, suddenly leaning in to put a mug in front of Shiro filling it with the pot in his hand. Eyes focused on the task at hand. When he looks back up, Shiro finds himself wondering if he'd imagined the quiet moment.

“So caffeine's a necessity, I guess.”

“My favorite enabler.” Shiro grins and Adam huffs and that feels far more like who they are and what they have than anything else. To spare them both, maybe, Shiro lifts the mug to his lips and takes a long drag – almost burning his tongue from the heat. _Fresh_. And delicious. “No one has anything on your coffee,” he murmurs between sips, lips around ceramic.

“That's why they keep coming in.”

Lulled by the warm, quiet, _easiness_ of the late afternoon's atmosphere, Shiro forgets to move slowly when he goes to place the mug back on the table and, already behind the eight ball, doesn't react quickly enough to keep his expression entirely smoothed over. There's a flicker, almost like a wince that has his eye fluttering and his mouth twitching in response to the ache that flares not only at his shoulder blade but down his side and up to his neck.

It's fast, though – a slip, a failure of composure, but fast and he _knows_ that. So he has no idea what to say in response to the way Adam's eyes narrow, the way he calls him to task for it.

“What's wrong?”

_Damn_. He'd made it through so _much_ of the day unnoticed – an hour and he would have been, literally, home free. Shiro's lips part as if to say something, but the moment he meets Adam's gaze again it's – back. The thing he can't put his finger on, the connection that he feels settle in his bones in a way he's not expecting.

What comes out of him is the truth.

“– I fell asleep last night without taking my prosthetic off. I know, I know – I didn't _mean_ to, not that it's any excuse, but – anyway, it's really not supposed to stay on that long because it pulls at the muscles and – _ah_ , hell. Easy explanation, I was an idiot.”

Shiro finds that he has to pick his head up again to meet Adam's eyes, that he'd steadily looked down towards the table in the process of fumbling his way through the truth. For a few beats, Adam says nothing. Then his lips quirk and Shiro watches them, a little fascinated.

“Ah, I see. – Hang on a second.”

And then Adam's turning on his heel and walking back behind the counter. Shiro watches him go, feeling a little – hollowed out. Confused, curious, not quite sure what to make of this day that's thrown him for a loop he should have been better prepared for. For a long while, Shiro watches the kitchen door Adam's ducked behind – and then finds his gaze tracking to the window as the evening deepens to life.

A bag lands on the table in front of him.

Adam is standing by the table again, hand on his hip now that the takeout container has been delivered. His expression is a little fierce, a little amused, a little – something else Shiro can't name. (Or: something else Shiro _won't_ name.)

“Go home. I put in extra fries and pie slices – call Keith to meet you there, unless he wants to pick up something else I don't have in the bag.”

“Adam –”

As if by reflex, Adam reaches out and places a hand on Shiro's shoulder. On his right shoulder, above where flesh meets metal. It happens so quickly that they are both stunned into silence – Adam's gaze questioning and far more unsure than his gesture.

Then, maybe also reflexively, Shiro reaches up to pat the back of his hand reassuringly.

A second later, they part.

It's not – really a big deal. Matt's pretty comfortable with the prosthetic, and Keith – well. Keith knows him better than anyone, even if Shiro usually downplays it out of sheer, protective habit. There's usually no difference in touching it or not touching it – and yet here he sits, the throbbing dulled for absolutely no reason he can understand.

“– Right. Right, _yeah_ , okay.” Shiro looks down at the bag and grabs it with his natural hand as he stands, a flurry of motion and sound, scraping the chair on his way up. “I will, sounds like a good plan. Which, y'know, of course it does – you're the smartest guy I know. – I mean – thanks, Adam.”

“– You're welcome.”

The teasing lilt of Adam's voice is softened, and it follows Shiro out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disasterganes.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> i have no schedule for this and no excuse for this. i also forgot gg scripts are usually 80 pages long and realized that i've fallen into the deep end. 
> 
> disasterganes.tumblr.com


End file.
